


Saber and Beskad

by GraceEliz



Series: Shelter of his Wings [4]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Eyrie-verse, F/M, Fox loves his kickass girlfriend, Jedi Culture, Space Scotland and Attitudes Towards Slavery, Sparring is flirting, Stewjon is space Scotland, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:29:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceEliz/pseuds/GraceEliz
Summary: The little ones cluster in, mindful of the bared sword over their tutor’s knee tilted towards them. “Do you see these runes? They are a vow, in the words of the Pecht. No slaves. Two words. No slaves. We will not be slaves, we will not allow others to be slaves. This we take seriously. This is our creed, our people’s whole soul. Freedom.”
Relationships: CC-1010 | Fox/Original Female Character(s), Fox/Felicity
Series: Shelter of his Wings [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808101
Kudos: 9
Collections: Commander Fox





	Saber and Beskad

“Keep your guard up, or you die,” he hears Flit say loudly. Curious, he dips into the training salle – these files will wait. “Drop your guard, you die. Lose your focus, you die. Drop out of the Force, and – you – die.”

Okay, that’s brutal, but he understands. Still. She’s teaching Shinies today. They’re all between the ages of eight and twelve standard, but she has an audience of younglings and Masters both. She is in her training slacks, which are not slack at all. Click referred to them as ‘vacuum-pack shirts’. Yellowish saber in one hand, beskar blade in the other, she is some vengeful angel-goddess.

His breath catches. She’s glorious.

“Who can tell me what makes a warrior, and what the difference is between a warrior and a Jedi? I am a Jedi Knight, and the Keeper of my Clan’s records. This means I have a dual duty,” she lectures loudly to the listening room. “As Knight Kenobi my duty is to the Jedi, to you. As Flit Nic Gregor my duty is to Clan Gregor and Stewjon. So,” she asks of them, eyes roaming as she turns in a slow circle, wings lit by the light to be the same shade as the wooden balconies overlooking the salle, “how do I balance it?”

A few of her students whisper together, consulting. Flit smiles proudly at them. After a minute, one girl steps forward. “You don’t kill them,” she says.

“Good,” praises Flit. In a lightning-fast movement, her saber is cast – using the Force, evidently – to her folded robes on the bench; her beskad is high above her head, glinting in the light. It’s a…Soresu stance, he thinks. First stance, like when General Kenobi has a duel. From above, a couple Masters frown. “I don’t kill. That’s one thing. Another?”

“Don’t let your emotion control you,” pipes a teen from the balcony. Slowly, a display of skill and strength, the Stewjoni woman leans forward, left leg arching up behind as she raises her glinting blade level with those dark blue eyes, wings tight to her back, elbows high.  
“A good warrior must be in control, but unlike some warrior cultures, a Jedi must never give in to anger. What does anger lead to?”

“Loss of control!”

“And thence to,” she prompts, springing into the air with a beautiful swinging kick, provoking gasps from the impressed younglings as she lands in the mirroring pose – right leg arced, blade on the other side. Her shoulders ripple. 

“The Dark Side,” chorus the children. Above, one of the Masters shifts. The name of the species is under his tongue – begins with an S, ends with -ean or similar.  
Flit straightens, wings held parade-rest at her sides. “What are my disadvantages?”

Another long pause, as the students whisper and protest. Hero-worship, indeed.

The girl from earlier steps forward once more, pink skin blushing purple. “Wings?”

“Yes! Yes, my wings are a disadvantage. Why?” When no student answers, shifting uncomfortably at the thought their tutor has weaknesses and wants them to point them out, she meets his gaze, raising her pale eyebrows. “Commander?”

Sighing, he strides forward into the light, standing opposite the younglings but on the same red-paint line marking the edge of a sparring circle. “They’re huge and sensitive, and a large weight. If you’re not careful they could be slashed or shot before you condense yourself as a target, or overbalance you,” he says, reeling off all the observations he has stored away from their sparring sessions. “If you were one of mine I’d have Shinies throw things at you until you learned to make yourself a smaller target, even though you’re small already.”

Some of the Younglings look rather interested in the exercise – yeah, he’s going to be receiving hard looks from their tutors for giving them the idea, but it’s for their good. 

“I am a target. However. Why might they not aim at my wings, even though I can fly?”

A long pause. He knows, the Masters know, the older Padawans know. A little Twi’lek, all pale dusk colours, steps up. “You’re valuable,” he says lowly.

Flit has no smile for her Shinies now. Crouching, she beckons them closer, eyes hard and face serious. Not for the first time, he wishes he could see her Force Signature, wishes he had an insight into what he is sure is a beautiful whirl of her. The little ones cluster in, mindful of the bared sword over their tutor’s knee tilted towards them. “Do you see these runes? They are a vow, in the words of the Pecht. No slaves. Two words. No slaves. We will not be slaves, we will not allow others to be slaves. This we take seriously. This is our creed, our people’s whole soul. Freedom.” She looks at him, blue eyes vividly intent. “Can you think of why people want me?”

“Your wings,” they whisper in muffled chorus.  
Flit hums, returning that intense blue gaze to her children. “But let me tell you something. I am a Jedi. I believe in the Jedi. And for the Jedi, I have done and will do things that horrify my Clan and my friends. Why?”

“For the Light,” insists one boy. He is rewarded by a soft grin and a chuck of the chin.

“For the Light.” Steadily, she stands up.” What have we learned?”

“To be stable.”

“To be thoughtful!”

“That we can balance our duties but the Jedi come first.”

“Indeed. Now. Who’d like to see me spar with the Commander?” she inquires, winking cheekily at him. Anyone who thinks General Kenobi got all the sass has never encountered his cousin – she is easily as bad. “So long as Commander Fox is not busy, or otherwise needed,” Flit adds, ushering the children to sit on the benches.

He shakes his head. “I’m free. I’ve got a round of Crèche Duty after lunch.”

“Blades? Hand to hand?”

Stars but he’s tempted by hand-to-hand, tempted almost beyond what their respective vows can handle. Jedi aren’t particularly celibate – he’s met General Vos, which is all the statement he’s willing to make on the Kiffar Jedi; lots of the Guard vode are pretty damn certain General Kenobi is screwing Duchess Kryze; General Skywalker is definitely in a relationship with Padmé Amidala. So celibacy isn’t the problem here. It’s their own personal beliefs. Flit doesn’t want to take the step, not when they can’t be properly together – she’s explained the biological urge for family and, well, to say he relates is an understatement but that is very definitely not something he can think about here. “Fence with me,” he half-orders. At her pleased smile – dear Force let his shields have held up, just thinking about the spectators noticing his errant emotions is mortifying – he moves to the armoury, one of the young Knights, maybe only a year younger than Flit, drawing him a steel blade.

“Now,” she calls, “what are the main qualities of beskar?”

The children reel them off, lightly bickering about whether “unbreakable” or “stops lightsabers” is the best quality while Flit takes a drink and stretches again. Her wings flare, looking closer to brown than blonde now she’s out of the daylight. He sets his bag of gifts for the little ones down on the other bench. Up above, Masters are whispering together, and he knows that clump of Knights leaning precariously over the edge is making bets. Maybe they’re her age-mates.

“Flit!”

“What,” she yells right back at the dark Twi’lek leaning over the balcony.

“Don’t hurt him too much,” the Knight teases. Flit stares up flatly.

“He’s a CC, they’re like, literally designed to be badasses.”

The Twi’lek grins, much like Vos. “Aayla reckons elsewise.”

“Aayla was raised by Quinlan, mate, she literally grew up with the Order’s most famous badasses. I can’t compete with that.”

A pale-skinned white-haired Master laughs. “Perhaps so, but you are of Kenobi blood.”

They don’t need to tell him all this: Flit kicks his ass all the time, and he’s never considered himself so insignificant as when he had the honour of watching the truly spectacular three-way spar between Vos and the two Kenobis his vode had arranged in the barracks. If they’re trying to throw him off his rhythm it won’t work. He has, like, four million brothers.

The beskad in his hand sings through the air. Nice, he observes, weighing it, lunging and slashing and slicing to learn the length and curve of it; very nice. “I like this blade.”

“Yeah?” Flit grins at him. “You can’t keep it.”

“Pity,” he quips, lunging at her legs. The younglings gasp as he redirects for her wings, carefully avoiding actually nicking the feathers; she leaps back, sliding under the reach of the blade, slashing at him in a wide sweep. Advantage is hers: she knows her blade and her foe, and is both slightly prescient and a Force User. This affects her ability. Flit will always be faster. However, he notes, this blade is very nearly a perfect match for his ability, short enough to handle his tendency to roll and dip and slide. After all – a sharp stab, parry, whirl – he is a Fox. Something under his shoulderblade twinges; he’ll have to be careful afterwards not to pull anything further. Jedi spars often lead to torn muscles in the troopers. Now would be a good time to press his advantage, to leap and wrap his thighs about her neck-and-shoulder in that impossible move he learned off Shaak-buir to drive her into the ground, but he doesn’t wish the spar to end so quickly. That, and he knows he’ll lose his composure. 

“Discussion point: our advantages and disadvantages.”

“You have them homeworking when you’re sparring?” he asks, between rolling his shoulder and dancing out of her reach to wipe the sheen of sweat from his brow. 

“You do the same,” she half-scolds as she bounces, flips over his head. Show-off. Thankfully her sword is on the wrong side of her body to touch him, so the spar continues.

“I do,” agrees Fox, darting and – yes! First blood, a thin pin-slice to the outer edge of her wrist. “Continue?”

Flit brings the cut to her lip. It leaves a red mark on her pink lips. Something deep inside growls at the sight. “Continue,” she says; her blade rings off his almost before he sees her move. Like that, then? Very well, he snarls, showing his teeth in an Alpha-challenge move – if someone up in the balcony sees him as a threat he’s screwed. Her own teeth, surprisingly uneven, bare in response. Flit is a null, but she’s certainly – he rolls under her stretch swinging his leg out and she teeters, and he retreats – violent, and now she is off-balance. Without wasting his chance, he leaps in the move he previously discarded, using his size and strength and unexpected flexibility to get his knee hooked around the back of her neck, driving her down to the mats, his other knee pressed into her upper body, the blade to her throat and those stunning dark-blonde wings outstretched beneath them. Her hair tickles his ankle where his blacks have slipped up. 

“I win,” he purrs, body curled far too near around her upper body. “Do you yield?” Her head is _so close –_

“You win,” agrees Flit, grinning, sweaty, glowing with life.

 _I love you,_ he doesn’t say.

“Ha! Hand it over, Mish, I told you Commander Fox could have her down,” yells the Twi’lek. At Flit’s raised eyebrow, he twists away, a smooth roll that yep, there it goes, stretches those aching muscles under his shoulder past the point of no return. There won’t be much throwing the toddlers around today. 

“Good spar, Commander,” she says.

Fox smiles at her. A true smile, unhindered by the usual restriction of public and watched and secret. “A good spar indeed, Knight Kenobi.”

She offers her hand so he can help her off the floor – in her culture opponents must shake hands, a symbol of goodwill – and pulls him in, her hand hot even through his greaves. 

Her lips brush his ear. “I’ll come by later to – spar. I yield, to you.”

Oh, how very cruel, to make such an innocent confirmation of their usual routine sound to be so dripping in innuendo. Perhaps full armour would have been sensible, some way of separating his skin from the heat of her hand. No, not heat. Flit often has cold hands. The problem lies in her every touch sends a jolt of heat down his spine.

“Now, children, to your next class, hm?” she cajoles, back into Teacher Mode as she steps away with a clap, “I do believe some of you have Master Nu.”

“Thank you, Knight Kenobi!” chorus the younglings as they troop out of the hall, eagerly discussing their favourite moves from the spar. Some of the Masters leave the balcony, but the chattering gaggle of Knights show no sign of leaving. The Twi’lek is conversing loudly with Flit and another friend in Ryl, draped so far over the bannister it makes Fox a touch queasy to look at. Maybe that’s the adrenaline; he isn’t afraid of heights. He always lands on his feet. 

What does he do now? Leave? He shuffles over to his discarded armaments, re-strapping his holsters. 

“Commander Fox, would you lunch with us?”

The Twi’lek, now on ground level. “I would. Please, call me Fox.”

“Leyol,” says the Knight, shaking forearms in Mandalorian style. “It’ll be you, me, Flit and Mish over there for lunch.” It seems Mish is a delicate looking Togruta, rather small for her age, but he doesn’t underestimate anyone. Not anymore.

“Sounds excellent. How did you get down here?”

Leyol laughs, his lekku twisting into coils with his amusement. “Flit, being winged, had to learn to fly, and so we all got good at catching ourselves and each other in the Force. We use it to cheat on little inconveniences like stairs.”

“If I had that,” Fox says, “I would catch so many more criminals.”

The Twi’lek laughs, seeming amused by the concept of tired Guards dragging criminals home with the Force. 

Dinner is simple but hearty, which is one of his favourite things about visiting the Temple for Crèche Duty one shift a week. Today the main course is vegetables and minced meat, topped in mashed tubers, served up with a choice of sauces, and the offer of a dessert – but too much good food will leave him in the ‘freshers all night, so he’s passing on the cakes, with regrets. “I love this,” says Fox near-reverantly, mopping the gravy up with some of the tasty gluten-free bread they put on. 

“It’s very similar to what we eat on Stewjon,” Flit tells him, scraping the last of her carrots into her bread roll. “Living off the land and all, we get a variety of food.”  
He frowns down at his empty plate. “Isn’t nutrition an issue then?”

“Not so much now, actually. I do remember being – what, five maybe, and there being a shortage, and the adults didn’t eat much for a month or so. We’re wired to survive though. We don’t get sick much, which helps.” Flit shrugs, wings twitching with the motion. “Obi-Wan and I are probably the healthiest members of the Clan, though. Core upbringing.”

He’s almost twitching to help her as he watches her stack the empty plates, the subvocal exchanges between her friends and her, the ease that comes of knowing someone as well as or better than you know yourself. “If it isn’t an intrusion, how does the Clan feel about that?”

Mish and Leyol narrow their eyes at him, making the hair on his neck rise under the sensation of a predator’s eyes. Truly, he is sorry if this is a sore topic, but he must know. He wants to know everything she’s willing to tell him. 

“They’re proud of us. Obi-Wan is a ruler, you know. He, Fionna and Eion are a triumvirate,” she says simply, kindly smiling to set his concern at rest. Of course, he scolds himself, of course they approve. Is he not proud of all his vode? Of every single one of them? When she returns from handing in the plates, she cranes her neck over to check the clock. “Mm, you’d better head down to the crèche. I’ll walk with you.”

Her friends say something in a language he doesn’t recognise, laughing loudly at the slight flush along her cheeks. She retorts fondly, shoving at them with the Force to make Leyol fall out his seat. Rough and tumble bonding – and they say the Jedi are standoffish, have no affection, don’t understand family. They’re the largest and most unified family he’s ever going to have the joy of encountering.

“Come on, Fox,” Flit says, her laugh colouring her voice, face crinkled into the broad smile she wears when her friends, her family, are with her. 

The crèche is a peaceful place, despite being the furthest from tranquil. Laughter, screeching, the odd teary babe, it all combines into a sense of home that leaves him craving what he never got to have. How easy it is, to understand why Ma and Uj and Paint claim crèche duty whenever they’re able. Flit holds a winged child, only a year or so old, on her lap, cooing gently as she runs her short fingers through the downy feathers. The babe looks like the cherubs decorating some of the halls in the Senate. 

“They’re so very cute, aren’t they?”

He smiles. “Yes.” They are, and he is going to say it. Small beings are a blessing. The only thing he cares for. His kih’vode just can’t get this level of cute.  
Flit frowns, tracing two small bumps near the base of the child’s left wing. “Master Aneya?” she calls. 

The Togrutan Crèche Master steps into the room. “Felicity, dear?”

“What are these bumps?”

“Ah.” The Togrutan crouches beside them. “I was hoping you’d have an idea,” he says, brushing some crumbs from the babe’s lip. 

“Does she have human in her ancestry?”

“You think it could be a genetic defect?” Fox manages to hide the catch in his breath, reminding himself that an aberration does not necessarily mean a defect, that no matter what he fears the Jedi do not decommission their young ones. 

Flit nods slowly, worry still creasing between her eyebrows. “It might not be too bad. My cousin – the cousin Obi-Wan and I share – is half human and he got lucky, he can even fly for short periods, but it isn’t uncommon for part-blooded Stewjoni to have issues with their wings that lead even to operations.”

“You’re not human?”

Both Master and Knight stare over at him. 

“No?” says Flit slowly, flaring her blonde-streaks wings out behind her demonstratively, and that’s fair. It is pretty obvious that she is not simply human. “I have wings, and different physiology.”

He blinks again. The physical differences allowing her to have wings and fly aren’t really things he’s spent much time thinking about, but he should do. They’ll have to discuss this later. This seems like the sort of thing that he should have thought of already: he’s Commander Fox, the best of his batch, one of the most capable leaders in the whole damn GAR. Maybe he’ll just pull a Bly. 

She murmurs to the child, cuddling her in close to her chest, wings forming a cradle; she’s letting him see, watch them, and his heart is so full.


End file.
